


Run(a)way Model: Part Deux

by Lara Winner (rah10381)



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Adrien Agreste Needs a Hug, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Gabriel Agreste's A+ Parenting, Marinette Has a Plan, completed work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-23 01:09:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20883683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rah10381/pseuds/Lara%20Winner
Summary: No one should go it alone. Not even the son of a super villain.





	Run(a)way Model: Part Deux

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AlexSeanchai](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=AlexSeanchai).
  * Inspired by [Run(a)way Model](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20741501) by [AlexSeanchai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexSeanchai/pseuds/AlexSeanchai). 

> This story is a continuation of AlexSeanchai abandoned work "Run(a)way Model". You should definitely read that fic first as parts of this may not make sense otherwise. I tried to do the original story justice. I hope this conclusion will suffice.

Bastien thinks that stocking shelves is a shit job. There’s a million other things he’d rather be doing- Régine, for one. Jamming with his bandmates. Fuck, he’ll even settle for homework, but staring at cereal boxes for six hours straight? Bullshit.

There is an odd boy standing a few feet down the aisle staring at the Cookie Crisp box in his hand like it has the answers to the universe. Bastien is inclined to think that for him maybe it does. The guy’s gotta be crazy. He’s been talking to himself under his breath for as long as he’s been on the aisle. 

“It looks like cookies, yes, but I’m not sure they taste like it,” the boy mumbles.

Bastien doesn’t dare look in the guy’s direction. He doesn’t get paid enough to deal with nut jobs. Especially ones carrying backpacks with who knows what inside.

The kid keeps on talking. “Never had it. I wasn’t allowed to eat sweets before.” He puts the cereal back. “It wasn’t… look, don’t be sorry. I’m not surprised. We knew. We had proof and he played us. I trusted him-” the boy sighs, his shoulders slumping, “-and she trusted me.”

The kid moves closer, not paying anyone any mind. Bastien readjusts his grip on the box cutter in his hand, just in case.

“You don’t have to tell me anything. I won’t try and figure it out.” The kid frowns, absently tugging at the dark stud earring in his ear before scratching at the back of his neck. “I know. You said she’s made her choice but I- ”

Crazy guy’s words cut off abruptly as he flinches, his dragging feet stumbling to a stop as he suddenly registers Bastien’s presence. He blinks; tired, red-rimmed, green eyes taking up most of his colorless face. Without a word the kid turns on his heel and stalks away.

Bastien breathes a sigh of relief.

* * *

Philippe doesn’t care much for smartphones. They only seem to make people more stupid in his opinion. He slants his glance over to the boy seated a few stools down. The counter they are sitting at faces the picture window and they have a clear view out to the street, but the boy is glued to his phone, only half-heartedly picking at his croissant.

What happened to the days when kids went to the park and played ball? Did kids do that these days? He wasn’t sure. He didn’t have any grandchildren to ask. 

Taking a sip of his café au lait, Philippe goes back to reading the paper, scanning over the latest headlines. One from Paris causes him shake his head: “Can Paris afford Hawkmoth? With no sign of Ladybug the damage toll is rising.” How ridiculous. Not for the first time, he’s glad he doesn’t live anywhere near all that magical nonsense.

Philippe startles when the boy’s cell phone rings, but surprisingly, not as badly as the boy does. The kid nearly drops the phone, his face going sheet white as he stares at the device like he’s never seen it before. Three more shrill rings and the boy finally answers. 

“Hello?” There’s a few beats of silence. Through the corner of Philippe’s eye, the boy gapes. “Mari?” Then boy laughs, the sound thick and wet. “God, it’s so good to hear your voice.”

Phillipe can’t hear what is actually being said- his ears aren’t that good anymore- but there is definitely a feminine voice coming from the phone and as the voice keeps rambling, getting higher and higher in pitch, Philippe wonders if this Mari person is going to breathe anytime soon.

“I’m sorry,” the boy finally gets the chance to say, “I couldn’t tell you. I couldn’t tell anyone.” 

Philippe can’t help but notice the droplets falling onto the napkin as the kid rests his head in his hand, covering his eyes.

“We do but-” suddenly the boy tenses, his head snapping up. “Wait. Are you calling me from your phone?”

It’s not Philippe’s intention to eavesdrop but he can’t help but hear one side of the conversation. It’s also not his fault the puzzle is so intriguing. 

“Okay. Good.” They boy literally sags in relief. “Yeah... burner phone. Why didn’t I think of that?” To whatever it is the girl replies, the boy chuckles weakly, “Very true.” 

Philippe takes another sip of his café, eyes on his paper, listening intently. This is the most drama he’s been privy to in a long time.

“_ You _ sent her after me?” The boy sounds shell-shocked. “She wouldn’t tell me anything.” There’s a pause, then, “So you know…?”

That Mari person starts rambling again and Philippe has to fight not to crack a smile. That is until the boy starts scrubbing at his eyes once more. 

“I figured I was replaceable.” The kid sounds sad- no, not just sad, he sounds like something vital inside of him is broken. Still, he soldiers on. “Look, there is a lot I need to explain and it needs to be done in person. I promise I’ll do whatever it takes to fix this and us but,” the kid swallows hard, “but I can’t do any of that until I can come home.”

The boy has a troubled home life? Philippe can relate to that. He still remembers when he left home to make his own way, seventeen and so green it’s painful to think about even now, over fifty years later. 

“My plan wasn’t very creative,” the boy says dryly, “I thought it would be better to stay away until I could figure out what to do about him. At this point I’m a liability to you, our friends- hell, everyone I know.” He pauses, the faintest hint of a smile curling his mouth. “Please do. I’m listening.”

Oblivious to his audience of one, the boy slides from the stool, grabs his backpack and exits the bakery. Philippe watches him climb on his bike and pedal away, silently wishing him the best of luck.

* * *

Felicienne rests her chin in her palm, only partly listening and mostly trying not to doze off as Evaine prattles on and on about the latest akume battle- if it can be called that.

“I swear, it’s like Hawkmoth doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing anymore. He starts fights and as soon as Rena, Carapace and Minuit show up he fucks with them just long enough to piss everyone off and then calls back the evil doom-flies. Like really? What the hell is the point?”

“Isn’t it obvious? He’s trying to draw out Ladybug,” Felicienne replies, already bored with the conversation. The speculations are everywhere, constant fodder for every magazine and news station in France- right along with that model kid that got abducted. With the disappearance of the spotted heroine and her Don Juan- wanna be partner, Paris’ resident super villain has been leaving a lot to be desired.

As Evaine goes off on another tangent about her badass idol and what could possibly have happened to Ladybug, Felicienne continues to watch the people going by. The terminal is busy- as usual for this time of day at Charles De Gaulle- but her attention is caught by a young- possibly asian?- girl trying to stuff a decent sized package into a storage locker with one hand. 

It takes Felicienne a moment to realize why the awkward, slip of a girl is having problems. It isn’t until the girl turns, her midnight hair glinting blue in the fluorescent lights, that she sees the girl’s right arm is in a cast and supported in a light pink sling. Nothing about the gangly teen is noteworthy, she muses, and yet something she can’t put her finger on is holding her attention.

Even after the girl is victorious and secures the locker, quickly scampering away with an uneasy glance or two over her shoulder, Felicienne is still pondering what it was that drew her attention in the first place.

That’s the only reason she notices that less than twenty minutes later a boy, probably not any older than the girl in question, saunters up and opens the locker as if he has every right to do so. And for all she knows, and even cares, he does. He’s probably the dark haired girl’s boyfriend or something. She can’t see his face, not with his black hoodie pulled up, but she thinks what she glimpses of his profile is a nice one. He removes the package carefully, holding it gingerly, as if it is a priceless treasure.

Curiosity, she decides, and a good dose of boredom- because layovers fucking suck and anything is good distraction from the nightmare of uni course work awaiting her return- is why she keeps observing the boy as he takes a seat two benches down and eagerly opens the package.

The contents are not exactly what she’s expecting. A flash drive. Three patisserie boxes and an envelope. The boxes of goodies are put back into the package with care while the flash drive is immediately tucked away into the boy’s green backpack. Then he opens the envelope and begins reading.

Fingers snap in front of her face. “Are you even listening to me?” Evaine whines.

At that point Felicienne is forced to look away, her focus captured by her sister’s enthusiastic update on the Agreste kidnapping scandal. And then boarding is called for her flight to Lyon and she’s all but forgotten the boy clutching the letter to his chest as he uses his sleeve to scrub at his eyes.

* * *

Délice hates to be judgmental, she really does, but it irks her nerves when people waste time looking at expensive laptops they have to intention of buying. Hello! She works on commission. Every lame ass time waster is costing her money.

Well, the boy- cute for being like sixteen but kind of emo looking with that dark buzzed hair and pale as chalk skin- isn’t wasting her time, per se. He hasn’t asked her for assistance yet and when she offered, hoping to send him on his way because there’s no way a kid like that can afford the top of the line merch she sells, he brushed her off firmly but politely.

So Délice settles for watching him instead. He’s typing away on his phone, researching various laptop models and comparing user reviews, no doubt. After what seems like forever, the boy finally huffs a near silent laugh and catches her eye.

“Excuse me, Madame,” he says calling her over with a listless wave, “I would like to purchase this one please.”

She’s anticipating the disappointment he’ll show when she drops the bomb- the model he wants costs more that what most people make in three months- and she plasters on her sharpest smile because cut-throat is the only way to be when working the sales floor. 

When the kid pulls out a bank roll with a lot of zeros, Délice's perfected air of authority begins to unravel at the edges. The kid has to be a hacker or some shit to have those kind of euros on hand, not that she cares. Honest or not, all money spends the same.

Délice is nothing if not exceptional at her job so she switches tactics faster than Hawkmoth has been swapping akumas lately. “That’s a very nice choice Monsieur…?”

“Dupain,” the boy smiles. His eyes may as well be emerald ice shards. “I’ll be paying with cash.”

* * *

“What kind of Father refuses to cooperate with the police to find their missing child?” asks Ismaël, red faced and out of breath.

Frédéric is a bit more in shape and handles the treadmill like a pro. “A horse’s arse, that’s who,” he replies, barely winded, and glances back up to the mounted television screen. 

Nadja Chamack’s voice rings clear as pictures of teen model Adrien Ageste are flashed across the screen. _ “-sources believe there is more to the story that is not being told to the public. Earlier today Lieutenant Raincomprix offered this statement.” _

The pictures change to a clip from this morning's press conference.

_ “_ _Monsieur Agreste has allowed limited access to the police force and opted to handle his son’s disappearance through private means. Rest assured, the police are still very much involved in locating the missing boy and Monsieur Agreste is working _ _with us. This is a delicate situation and with such a high profile case, public access to information must be restricted.” _

Off screen a voice calls out a question. _ “Has there been any further contact from the kidnappers?” _

Lieutenant Raincomprix cleared his throat. _ “Other than the original ransom demand, no there has not.” _

Another voice, another question. _ “Is there anything to indicate that Adrien Agreste is still alive?” _

_ “We have no reason the believe that any harm has befallen the boy at this time.” _

Frédéric shakes his head, giving his boyfriend a sour look. “That poor kid’s probably already dead and here these idiots aren’t doing anything but posturing for the fucking cameras.”

From his left a soft, masculine voice laughs bitterly. “That’s all the kid was good for too, right?”

“What?” asks Frédéric, caught off guard. 

The young man is working out on the chest press machine, cheeks slightly flushed but pasty- definitely in need of some vitamin D and Frédéric doesn’t mean the fun kind- with his damp brown hair sticking up and sweat trickling down his temple. He’s wearing the standard blue shorts and white logoed tank top the gym issues to new members. That explains why Frédéric and Ismaël haven’t seen the young man here before. 

“That’s a horrible thing to say about someone who may have died,” Ismaël scolds gently.

The new guy just shrugs. “Hardly anyone would care if Agreste wasn’t so pretty. If the kid is alive,” the guy smiles and it’s not nice, it only intensifies his harsh frown, “and his kidnappers really wanted to make a statement then they should fuck up that face of his. Make the kid useless and then see how fast his old man washes his hands of the situation. They wouldn’t get the ransom but since they’ve been pretty quiet it’s probably safe to say that wasn’t their motive to begin with.” 

There is uneasiness in Frédéric’s stomach at the new guys jaded perspective. It makes a ruthless kind of sense… assuming the kid is alive. “You don’t think he’s dead?”

“Who knows.” New guy pauses in his repetitions to slip in his earbuds and tap at his phone, closing his eyes and essentially ending the conversation, but not before adding, “Agreste may not be dead but I doubt they’re gonna find him alive, if they find him at all.” 

There’s a cryptic kind of finality in the statement that has Frédéric sharing a look with Ismaël. Maybe they’re done with the treadmills for today.

* * *

Vreni lights a cigarette, inhaling deep as she takes a seat at the bus stop. The 12 is late and it’s just her luck that Olivier is waiting on her. She promised they would go to Cariwood and try out his new paintball gear but now the damn bus isn’t on time. She’d ask what else could go wrong today but she’s hesitant to antagonize fate quite that much. 

Idly, Vreni takes to watching the televisions on display in the window of the rent-to-own shop on the corner. There are several different screens but one in particular has caught her attention. It seems to have done the same to the boy passing by on his bike as he slows to a stop to watch as well. 

There’s no sound, the television secured behind a wall of glass but Vreni reads the caption at the bottom of the screen and it’s not hard to follow along- that there has been a development in the Agreste abduction case. A warning flashes across the screen, alerting that the images about to be shown are not appropriate for all viewers. 

Vreni is not squeamish but even she flinches. The first picture is Adrien, tied to a chair by his wrists and ankles, his face bruised and one eye swollen shut. The second picture is a close up of his face; one eye merely bloodshot but the other is puffy with the sclera a wine red color from internal bruising while his lips are dry and cracked with dried blood caked around the corners of his mouth. The third picture is another close up of the model with a black gloved hand holding an incredibly sharp looking knife to the boy’s throat. 

Vreni takes a drag of her cigarette, looking away from the disturbing images on the telly. She really doesn’t want to think about what the Agreste boy is going through. Olivier is only eleven, not much younger than the model, and to think of something like that happening to her little brother- she shudders, her stomach twisting nastily.

The boy on the bike is still watching the screen, rubbing at his neck absently. His strange smile gives her the creeps. 

* * *

Mireille doesn’t get paid to ask questions. She doesn’t get paid to make assumptions, either. Working the graveyard shift at the local twenty-four hour pharmacy has her seeing all kinds of characters in the wee hours of the morning. This kid is no exception. He places a pack of gauze, a roll of surgical tape, a bottle of peroxide, a tube of wound ointment and a utility pocket knife on the counter. Then, almost as an afterthought, he darts over to aisle three and grabs a container of chocolate chip cookies.

In between smacking on her gum, Mireille asks, “Is that all?”

The boy nods, his hoodie slipping down. His eyes are a bright green but his cheeks are gaunt. His face is handsome- actually he almost looks familiar but she knows she’s never met him before- and he’s got dark studs in his ears so she wonders if he’s got any ink under his slightly wrinkled clothing. Nothing like a guy with piercings and tatts to get her heart racing.

He’s at least sixteen. Could even be nineteen like her. Not jail bait so Mireille decides to test her theory. Twirling her magenta hair around her finger, she gives the boy a coy smile and starts scanning his items. “You live around here?”

“Visiting,” he replies, shifting on his feet.

“That’s a shame. I could show you around…” She lets the offer trail off, seeing if he’ll bite. 

“Thanks,” he grins, only it doesn’t reach his pretty eyes, “but I have a map. And Beauvais is smaller than where I’m from.”

“That’s nice.” It’s really not. Sore over being politely shot down but not wanting to admit it, Mireille flips her hair over her shoulder and takes the boy’s money, closing the till harder than necessary. 

* * *

Mélisande scrolls though her phone, quite used to being the third wheel. It doesn’t bother her. She can easily ignore the not so subtle groping going on across the booth; Emile isn’t nearly a sly as he thinks he is and Anaise always blushes redder than a beet which is a dead giveaway. 

They’re on their second glass of wine. Give them another thirty minutes and Mélisande can sneak away without the love birds noticing at all. 

“What are you reading?” asks Anaise, trying to act as if nothing is amiss.

“The latest post from the Ladyblog,” Mélisande replies, looking up from her phone. The boy in the booth across from them glances up from his laptop. 

Emile rolls his eyes. “Why do you keep up with that crap? You’ve never even been to Paris.”

“Real-life superheroes. What’s not to like?” Mélisande counters. Emile can be obtuse sometimes. He doesn’t understand her interest in superheroes just like he doesn’t understand her asexuality and insists that she just needs to get laid already. To be honest, Mélisande doesn’t understand him either.

Anaise cocks her head curiously, swatting at Emile’s wandering hand. “Hasn’t it been over two weeks since the last akuma attack? Isn’t that like a record or something?”

Mélisande nods. “There’s been no sign of Hawkmoth or Mayura. Carapace released an official statement to the Ladyblog saying that-”

“You’re really buying into this bullshit?” Emile scoffs. “It’s just a bunch of kids playing dress up as a tourist gimmick.”

Mélisande scowls at her best friend’s disposable dick, wishing he’d shut up for once. 

Anaise gives Emile the stink eye. “Let her finish talking.”

“Carapace is quoted as saying- _ “There has been a lot of trash-talk and misconceptions spreading around lately. I can confirm that Ladybug and Chat Noir are alive and well. They didn’t abandon Paris like many people seem to think. All I’m allowed to say is this: not all fighting happens on the front line. They have a plan and it is in action. With a bit of luck, this will all be over soon. Keep the faith guys and stay miraculous.” _ -The video was posted earlier this afternoon.”

“The only thing miraculous about Ladybug is that she can squeeze her ass into that outfit.” Emile snickers.

Mélisande loves Anaise dearly, but not enough to deal with Emile’s crap any more tonight. 

“Tell me, do you try to be twatwaffle or does it come naturally?” Emile sputters indignantly and Mélisande continues with a serene smile. “I’m going to offer you a bit of advice. Until you actually take a stand and put someone else’s safety before your own, shut the fuck up.”

Giving Anaise a wink- her friend’s face is turning purple from holding back her laughter- Mélisande saunters away from the table feeling proud that she finally had the guts to speak her mind. As she passes the dark haired boy engrossed in his laptop, she’s surprised when he gives her a thumbs up and a cheeky grin. 

She’s proud of herself indeed.

* * *

Hilaire is content to hang toward the back of the massive crowd that has amassed outside the gates of the Agreste Mansion. Lenae and Isaline are in the mess somewhere but Hilaire is not really a fan of large groups, still, she feels compelled to show her support after the latest development in the disappearance of Adrien Agreste. 

Hilaire hadn’t taken the whole abduction thing seriously until the torture pictures made headlines weeks ago. After that she and her friends paid attention to the updates. Isaline was convinced the police could do more. Lenae felt that Adrien’s father was to blame for not paying the ransom from the beginning. Then, this morning it was confirmed that the kidnappers had made another move. A package was delivered to Gabriel Agreste and inside it contained a disk and the white blazer Adrien had been wearing when he was last seen, only the blazer was stained with blood. On the disk- which was not released to the media- Adrien was further tortured, his beautiful face heavily disfigured. The video was confirmed as authentic and lab tests concluded the blood did, in fact, belong to Adrien.

Hilaire knows the public outcry has been loud and furious. It isn’t fair that someone so handsome, so prefect should have to suffer like that. It made Hilaire sick to think that Adrien’s life was essentially over. Even if he was found- and everyone prayed that he was- he wouldn’t be the same Adrien after this.

He would no longer be _ her _ Adrien and the thought was enough to bring tears to Hilaire’s eyes. 

Clutching the teddy bear she planned to leave at the gate as a token of condolence, Hilaire swipes at her tears as she steps away from the crowd, taking a moment to compose herself. She leans against the building across the street, the warm bricks still emitting residual heat from the afternoon sun even though the sun set over an hour ago. A few feet away there is a boy in a black hoodie- it’s a bit warm tonight for long sleeves, Hilaire thinks- and he’s watching the mourners grimly. 

He’s cute, at least what she can see of his face certainly is. He seems to be around her age but it’s too dark to tell the color of his eyes and the streetlight is only casting his dour expression in equally harsh shadows. The boy doesn’t seem like the type to be a fan of Adrien Agreste; not with his scruffy jeans, ratty sneakers and green backpack at his feet, but he’s here so he must be. 

Hilaire is about to make conversation to try and get his name- maybe a phone number because she’s willing to bet he’d clean up nice- when the boy’s phone rings, barely loud enough to be heard above the clamor of noise from across the street. 

“Hey, Bug.” His mouth twists into an approximation of a smile even as his eyes remain fixed on the crowd, glaring. “I can barely hear you and I sure as fuck can’t see you in that mess.”

His knee begins bouncing. The hand he’s using to hold his phone is wrapped in gauze, the silver ring on his finger gleaming under the glow of the streetlight. 

“So? I’m a little early. It’s okay.” To Hilaire’s surprise, the boy sounds sad. “Just text me when. I’ll handle the rest.” There’s a long pause and then the boy sighs, his eyes sliding closed as he tilts his head back against the bricks. “I have to be the one to do this. It was always going to end this way, whether I like it or not.” 

Hilaire doesn’t want to look like she listening but the nature of the conversation seems heavy, almost out of place despite the somber reason she’s here on this particular street corner in the first place. Suddenly his eyes snap open and Hilaire is stunned by their vibrant green and even more so by their sudden glassiness. 

This time he manages a real smile. “I love you too.”

Definitely talking to a girlfriend, Hilaire surmises. No guy gets that dreamy, cloud nine look unless he’s in deep and she’s not sure this boy will ever surface again. If only she and Adrien could’ve had their chance, it would’ve been like that, she’s sure of it.

Hilaire makes her way back toward the crown, steeling herself to push to the front this time. She doesn’t know why she glances back, or why she’s so intrigued with the strange boy anyway. Not that it matters, the boys is already gone.

* * *

Léa is used to akuma attacks. They hardly cause her to pause these days. It’s only par for the course if you live anywhere near the 21st arrondissement. And Léa knows that she and Marceau are safe- the Agreste mansion has been on lock down ever since the news about her employer's son was release- and it’s the only perk for working as a maid in the Agreste household. Well, safety from akumas and the pay. Certainly can’t forget about the pay. 

Still, no one was expecting the final face off between Paris’ super villains and her sworn defenders to happen on this particular Wednesday morning.

Léa is glued to the telly, griping Marceau’s hand and watching with bated breath as Ladybug and Chat Noir- the real deal this time, thank god- lead the miraculous team on the offensive. No detailed explanation is given on why they’ve been MIA but that is quickly shoved to the back burner for the moment. Paris has become a veritable war zone and there is nothing that anyone can do but watch in awe. 

Three hours, millions of euros worth of damage, and one massive warehouse explosion later... team miraculous is victorious. Just that quickly Hawkmoth and Mayura are no more and Paris is safe from psychological terrorism for the first time in years. Léa couldn’t be more ecstatic. There will be explanations and press conferences later but for now, Marceau has dinner to prepare and she has cleaning to attend to. Life goes on.

Léa begins her cleaning on the main floor. When she reaches her employers office, she knocks on the door but receives no answer. Following protocol she knocks one more time and waits a full minute before entering. The office is empty, which is very unusual, but Léa pays no mind because she’s not her boss’ keeper- that’s Nathalie’s job- and Monsieur Agreste and his assistant are somewhere in the mansion and that is only Léa’s concern when she is in their way. 

Léa also doesn’t think too much about the odd smudges of ash she finds scuffed on the marble floor. Her job is to clean messes, not inquire about how they are made. 

* * *

Vachel expected the first Hero’s Day celebration since the defeat of Hawkmoth to be wild, but this is surpassing even his expectations. Guiding Sarotte by the elbow, careful not to jostle her arm too much as she holds Ava, he leads his wife and daughter through the worst of the throng but Place des Vosges is cram packed and if this is supposed to be the kids entertainment area, he hates to see what the other parks have going on. 

Ava is getting fussy, it’s been a few hours since breakfast and even his stomach is grumbling. Vachel catches Sarotte’s eyes and jerks his head toward the bakery across the street. She nods and follows his lead through the cluster fuck of people. The patisserie is quaint- and crowded- but if the food tastes half as good as the heavenly aroma coming from the kitchen, then it will be well worth waiting in line for a treat. 

The que moves quickly and in less time than he thought it would take, Vachel is at the counter being helped by a petite young girl with midnight hair and the brightest blue eyes he’s ever seen. “What can I get for you today?” she beams.

“Two spinach quiche and a pain au chocolat, please.”

The girl nods and rushes off to box his order, but just as she goes to cross the entrance to the kitchens a brown haired boy comes barreling out carrying a tray of fresh baguettes. It’s on the tip of Vachel’s tongue to call out a warning because there is no way the taller boy has seen her, not with the overloaded tray he’s balancing, but to Vachel’s amazement the boy merely lifts the tray just as the girl ducks her head, his upper body twisting with admirable flexibility to give the girl just enough room to skitter past as she does some fancy footwork of her own to avoid crashing it to his side. 

As the slip of a girl hands Vachel his box in exchange for payment, he has to admit he’s impressed. You only get that kind of synchronization with practice and he can’t help but wonder; how many trays of baguettes hit the floor before they got that good?

* * *

“It’s only the biggest mystery of our generation,” Cerise pouts, folding her arms across her chest stubbornly.

Dax doesn’t agree or disagree, the little shit.

“Here,” she says, thrusting the tattered magazine into his hands, “page 36.”

Cerise has already read the article, and so has Desirée, Brielle. Violette and everyone else at the salon where she works. The one year anniversary of Adrien Agreste’s abduction seems to be all everyone has been talking about the last few days. Dax isn’t really concerned but he’ll read the article because she wants him to and that's all that really matters. As his eyes skim the paragraphs detailing the model’s unsolved kidnapping and the subsequent disappearance of his father some months later, Cerise sips her frozen mocha and observes the other café patrons curiously. 

The only other table in use on the veranda is occupied by a group of young adults, probably a double date if the way they’re paired off is anything to go by. One couple is darker skinned; the boy wearing glasses and a backward baseball cap while a curvy redhead leans into his side scribbling something in a notebook. The other couple is more lively; a pale boy with messy brown hair and blond roots pulls the tiny asian looking girl into his lap causing her to squeal. She wriggles, giggling as she tries to escape his hold.

“So they never found heads or tails of the father either?” asks Dax, sounding begrudgingly interested. 

“Nope. Even the police can’t figure out what happened to Gabriel Agreste and his assistant. No one was seen leaving or entering the mansion, even in the security footage,” Cerise replies. “It’s all very strange.”

The teens erupt into raucous laughter as the dark haired girl wriggles herself right off of her boyfriend's lap and onto the ground. The boy is quick to help her up and back onto his lap. Wisely, she doesn’t try to free herself this time.

Cerise turns to her brother but Dax is watching the youths at the other table thoughtfully. “What if the whole thing was staged?” he offers, “Maybe the three of them are living it up on some island in Carribean having the last laugh at our expense.” 

Cerise doubts that a sordid mystery of that magnitude would have a happy ending. In her experience, real life doesn't work that way. But who is she to say what is possible and what is not. After living with akuma’s for years, after seeing the magic at work first hand… 

Maybe things aren’t always what they seem.

The dark haired girl pecks her boy on the cheek. His face turns pink, his flush all the more noticeable against his fair complexion. It’s fucking adorable.

Lifting her cup and tapping it to her brothers, Cerise smiles. “Here’s to happy endings.”

**Author's Note:**

> It was really tricky to write from an outsider's perspective and still try to convey what was going on to the reader. Let me know if anything is unclear. Thank you for reading.


End file.
